


I'll Do My Best

by kenopsia (indie)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexuality, Atypical Physicality, F/M, Fluff, HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 01:56:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1801201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indie/pseuds/kenopsia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I -- ah, I can't." he said, looking flustered. </p><p>She leaned in; "What's wrong, Sherlock Holmes, haven't shaved in a while?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Do My Best

Sherlock Holmes was gorgeous, brilliant, well muscled and seemed to only own suit he had to be sewn into. Janine found him utterly mouthwatering from about fifteen minutes into their association.

He'd called her up after the wedding, and asked her if she wanted to "have dinner" in a way that hadn't been a euphemism, and she’d thought he was gay, or at least completely not interested in her, but she’d said yes, happy to be wrong.

He'd asked her about her work, and she'd raised an eyebrow at him. "You can tell all of the boring stuff just by looking at me, right? My office hours by my posture and the typing why the way I text and whatever else. Isn't all the small talk boring?"

"Painfully," he'd said, with a sly, calculated smile. "Something you'd like to do instead?"

But they were only halfway through their meal, so Janine swallowed down the rush of attraction she felt, centered around his curled, laughing mouth, and said: "Tell me something interesting."

He told her about bees. He told her the legal circumstances under which a DNA test might need to be done to determine from which colony a given bee originated.

"Wow," she huffed. "Are you the resident expert on apiology."

"That's just honeybees, actually." He said. He'd been more animated than she'd seen him yet, pushing his food around his plate with vigor. "More broadly, melittology is..." He cut himself off with a wry grin. "Anyways, I didn't bring you here to lecture you. Apologies."

After dinner, they'd discovered it would be convenient to share a taxi, and at her place she tugged on his tie. "Come up with me?" she said, letting her gaze linger on his plush bottom lip.

"I -- ah, I can't." he said, looking flustered.

She leaned in; "What's wrong, Sherlock Holmes, haven't shaved in a while?"

He turned red, lit strangely by the automatic light in the taxi connected to the door. Janine was half out. "Suit yourself."

"Wait!" he said, scurrying out behind her. She got the feeling that Sherlock normally looked unflappable, but right then, he looked rumpled and anxious, but he followed her upstairs regardless.

She’d only meant to tease him, but she brought him upstairs and turned on BBC News, and invited him to sit with her, poured him a glass of wine.

He’d left an hour later, only slightly kiss-mussed. “Not on our first date,” she teased, eyes bright, as she trailed a thumb across the strip of his abdomen exposed by his rucked-up shirt.

“Sorry to presume,” he’d said. She'd have been blind to miss the half second of relief on his face, before he smiled and ruffled his hand through her hair, and if she hadn’t already been ready for bed, she’d have smacked it away.

Since she was, she could lean into the touch, grin stupidly at him. “I’ll see you some other time, Sherlock.”

*

Their next date, where Sherlock had dragged her to a Saturday morning farmer’s market, based on what he’d deduced from her flat, she assumed, he explained something about himself.  

“Asexual,” she’d repeated, and his posture went out of whack: his shoulders coming up as if to protect his head. She fiddled with her keys. “But not aro?”

He looked cautiously pleased at her question. He was wearing a plum colored button up, and with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, she was a little distracted by his forearms. “Well?” she said, steady, “do you still want to spend time with me or not?”

“Yes. Very much so.” He said, and so she took his hand.

He discovered a new room in her flat, taking the wrong door to what he thought was the bathroom. “Not in there, Sherlock!” she said, a beat too late.

“This is worth more than your --” he said, before she coughed discreetly. “Ahem. I mean, this instrument is. Quite exceptional.”

She could hardly blame him. He was right -- whatever he was going to compare costs with, anything else in her life, her cello was the most expensive. She’d been on track to make it her career before she’d snapped her wrist after uni, setting her back years of practice as it healed, but barely, and leaving her hand stiff and awkward for too long afterward. She’d lost all momentum, and her brilliant future. She wondered if he knew that, or if she'd tell him one day.

“Thanks,” she said. In a confidential tone, she added, “It’s the love of my life.”

“I can see why,” Sherlock said, gravitating closer but not touching it.

“Go ahead,” she grinned, feeling confident in his clean hands and his respect for her instrument. He touched it with soft fingers, down the swell of it’s body, a thumb across the neck. She felt a phantom echo of that touch warm down her own spine. It was possibly the best foreplay she’d had in a while.

“You sure know how to treat a girl,” she said, heat unspooling in loose ribbons low in her abdomen.

“I do my best,” he said, giving it one last look before backing out. She leaned in, hovering a long, suspended moment before he lowered his mouth to meet hers, closed and soft. His hands rested on her shoulder blades. He was tentative, still, but then he lost a bit of his starch, his hand making a slow slide from shoulder to her hip, mouth moving in a languid slide. Her chest against his, she could feel his frantic heartbeat.

“Do you want to… stop?” she asked, breathless. She’d pulled her mouth away, but he’d moved his forehead to touch hers.

“No. I'd like to touch you.”

“But eventually,” she breathed.

“Eventually, we have a lot of options, and I’d be happy to see you stretched out and totally exhausted, but if being penetrated by my penis is the be all end all for your evening to have a satisfying culmination...” his voice, low like some wild thing, dark and shaded, trilled down Janine’s body in a slow wave. She felt damp heat culminating as she pulled him down into another kiss.

It was less restrained, now, and playful, and somehow they ended up in Janine’s bed, with her on her back and Sherlock hovering above her on all fours, like a cage made of sexy detective. His hand was warm under her summer dress, curled around her thigh almost chastely as he moved that leg up against the outside of his thigh, leaving space between her legs for him to slot his own knee against her. She made a silly, dopey noise into his mouth and she could feel the curve of his lip as he smiled against her mouth.

“All good?” he pulled away to whisper.

“You’re getting an A so far.” she laughed.

“Good to know,” he said, very serious as his head dipped to her neck, lipping against the side of it, sucking a soft smack against her pulse point. “It’s been a while since I’ve wanted… someone.”

“Pleasure to be of service,” she purred, as he nosed at the neckline of her dress, soft and light enough that when he blows a slow stream of air against the her breast, she can feel it. She lets out a single, giddy laugh, tilting her hips a jolt so she can chase the pressure of his leg, still in his trousers. “You--” she said, on a ragged inhale as he gave in, pressing hard against her panties with his knee. She swallowed, “seem like you’ve been in the neighborhood before.”

“Yes,” he said, looking amused. His skin must be so sensitive, his top lip rough and red from only minutes of kissing. She wanted to scratch it all over. “But it’s been some time. Let me know if I make any wrong turns.”

He doesn’t make any wrong turns, although he takes the meandering route, arriving to nuzzle her underwear off after half an hour, her bra off but her sundress still a silken thing, somehow turned from garment to prop under Sherlock Holmes’ surprisingly capable hands, and he traces spirals into her torso while he finally, finally sets his mouth on her.

After, when she finally says, “Sherlock, I am going to have a heart attack if you don’t stop,” and pulls him back up to lie next to her, he looks faraway.

“Anything I can do for you?”

Sherlock looked briefly confused. “Oh, you mean. No.”

“Are you sure? Even if it doesn’t get hard, it might feel nice. Like a massage.”

Sherlock laughed, once, and it was extremely gratifying. Her whole body was full of fluttering muscles, warm and heavy. “I’ll keep that in mind. Some other time, perhaps?”

She nodded, sleepy, curling under his neck. “Thanks,” she murmured, nosing into his clavicle. He eyes were getting heavy, she spent her last drowsy minutes to rub absent lines down the midline of his taut stomach until it relaxed under her fingertips, and eventually, she slipped into sleep.

*

She realized early on that though he wasn’t keen on orgasms, Sherlock did love to be touched. She petted his hair, squeezed his fingers, and on one memorable occasion, suckled on his soft cock for an indeterminate amount of time (which he called _somewhat pleasant_ but she had found a really charming experience, meaning, for once in her life, she had enjoyed giving a blowjob more than a man had enjoyed receiving it) before he puzzled out the answer to an evasive cold case that had been bothering him for hours after he’d finished the file, jumping up and dialing Lestrade before he’d even put his pants back on.

And he truly seemed to like getting her off, once they’d discussed the extent of his romantic feelings for her (attraction in a way he wasn't prone to, nebulous but present) and what parts of physical intimacy he was averse to (he wanted to neither penetrate her with his penis, nor be penetrated with anything she might own).

Sometimes, though, she got herself off, Sherlock Holmes tapping away at his laptop beside her.

“Can I try something?” she asked him, one night as he sat in his head, eyes flickering beneath vulnerable eyelids like a dream.

“Busy.”

“You’re thinking. Your body is more or less free,” she said, slyly.

“Get on with it then,” he said, sounding brusque, but there was the hint of a smile under the surface as she tugged down his trousers. By the time she’s spread out her hand lotion across the top of one pale, sparsely haired thigh, Sherlock had all but abandoned his train of thoughts, although he kept pretending, keeping his eyes closed and flicking back and forth horizontally.

She stripped out of her underpants, and shirt, leaving her skirt and bra on as she straddled his leg; she puts both hands on Sherlock’s shoulders to get a good angle, and eventually finds the rhythm to slide herself back and forth on his thigh in a delicious combination of pressure, friction, and getting to look at the most gorgeous man she’s ever kissed.

“Oh for the love of,” he muttered, opening his eyes to see her grinning at him. One hand came up to cup her face as the other sneaks behind her to expertly pop the clasp. If she ever sees him with his lock picking kit, she realizes, she will be instantly wet.

He leans down to nuzzle her chest with the tip of his nose before placing sucking, open mouthed kisses on the side of her breast. “Ah, yes,” she says, carding her fingers through his hair, rubbing her thumb across the shell of his ear, grinding back and forth on his firm thigh. “Please, please,” she whispers, and he doesn’t disappoint, fingers digging into the swell of her arse, mouth nibbling and sucking and brushing dry kisses across her breast in turns. She comes once with his mouth sealed around her throat, and again when he finally leaves the one (scattered with hickies, good thing it’s not swimwear weather) breast and gives the other a very hard, very deliberate nibble, directly on the peak of her nipple.

She howled and shook and pinned his thigh between her own, squeezing with almost brutal force, and he wrapped his arms around the back of her shoulders to pin her to him with delicious pressure as she trembled out the aftershocks, pulsing through her.

“Interesting,” he said, eyes bright.

Janine huffed out a laugh. “Yeah? Interested enough to want me to return the favor?”

“No,” Sherlock said, but leaned in to kiss her, soft and sucking. When he pulled back, it made the loveliest noise. “But you could brush my hair while I go back to actually solving this case.”

*

Sherlock spends three days off the grid. The first night in by herself in a while she spends, playing her cello until her hand cramps up.

She catches up with Mary, although she doesn’t tell her friend about her new, time consuming boyfriend. She wants to: Sherlock is out chasing criminals by himself while John’s blog sits, untouched.

Next time. If John doesn’t come by in a week, she’s going to call him herself.

On the the third night, she realizes she hasn’t heard anything from him since the first day. She texts him alive? y/n and in fifteen minutes, he replies. Alive. SH.

*

Sherlock Holmes was the nosiest  boyfriend she’s ever had. It wasn’t just the fact that he wanted to know all about her job, and her boss, and the childhood turtle that he just knows about because of some turtle related anomaly he happens to psychically detect, but he also poked around, touched everything, tried on hats in her closet.

He was frequently weird, and occasionally rude, and clearly lonely since Mary and John got married. His phone, as far as she could tell, remained silent and forlorn, and Sherlock seemed to allow himself to take it out and fidget with it, making sure he’s missed no messages, about once an hour.

Early on, he took to coming round most evenings after work, sometimes meeting her at work (no Sherlock, you cannot come up; I’ll be down in just a minute.) to share a taxi home.

“Let me give you a massage,” she said, one such night.

Sherlock didn’t even respond to her, like his only purpose coming over is to avoid conversation, refuse to eat, and sulk at her kitchen table, head his hands. Janine, typically, has extricated herself from relationships before they’ve come to the point where they come over with no intention of interacting. She’d always felt that getting comfortable enough to treat each other like furniture was pretty much the longest she wanted to be in a relationship.

She feels a curious fondness where her disgust at herself should be. She moved behind him, threading both hands into his hair, softer than it had any right to be. He groaned deeply as she ran all ten fingers against his scalp, alternating between the pads of her fingertips and the soft scrape of her acrylic nails. He was sitting backwards in her chair, so her pelvis rested against his back as she worked.

“You’re a gift,” he murmured.

“Long day?” she asked, thumbs following both tendons in the back of his neck.

“Monday hasn’t ended yet,” he said, syllables a blur against his own palms.

“Shit, Sherlock,” she replied. “It’s wednesday night!”

“Obviously,” he said, after a long pause.

“Are you falling asleep?”

“No,” Sherlock said, after the length of several acceptable-between-responses pauses stacked end to end.

“Come on,” She said, cupping under his elbows. “Up into my bed.”

“Criminals,” Sherlock barked, hoarse.

“You’re not much good against criminals just now,” she said, and manhandled him into her room, and gently wrestled him out of his trousers and button down, leaving him in his boxer briefs. She kissed his forehead. “You’re being over here has messed up my practice schedule, anyways. I probably don’t know how to play anymore.”

Sherlock nodded, curling up on his side, angling his body to keep her from seeing scars she’d seen before, but not usually in the full light. It had never occurred to her that Sherlock Holmes might be embarrassed of any part of his body, which he kept groomed like a prize poodle.

“Roll over,” she said, climbing into her bed.

“Don’t you have a cello to finger?” he said.

She gave a long, merry laugh, obviously fake until he sighed and gave in, rolling onto his stomach. She climbed up to straddle his bum, putting a strong thigh to either side of him, and placing her hands on his shoulders. She had lotion on her bedside table and warmed it in her hands before she rubbed down from the nub of his shoulder to his waistband.

She knew all about Sherlock Holmes: she’d followed his story in the papers with casual interest, but then after she’d been asked out by his royal highness, she’d scoured the internet for traces of him like a bloodhound. And then, even after that, she’d gone out with him, learned about bees and rearranged his grotty flat, prime real estate but shoddily kept, learned how he took his tea, and forced coffee upon him on occasion. She’d climbed into this bed with him on several occasions. Granted, he usually didn’t stick around after she dropped into sleep, but the fact remained: she was becoming quite familiar with him.

That aside, she usually didn’t see him from this angle, and even though he couldn’t see her, she tried to refrain from drinking in his scars. He was like a cat beneath her, tense at first, but then stretching almost flat, like a puddle of skin and fur. She worked her way up and down several times, fluffing his hair each time he got to the top. “Doesn’t anyone touch you?” she asked, in a quiet voice, in case he’d fallen asleep.

“There was a boyfriend in uni,” he said, without opening his eyes.

Janine was careful not to change the path of his hands, making the same vertical circuit around his spine. “Yeah?”

“Mmm. By some miracle, he was … like me.”

Janine chewed on that sleepy admission for a while. “You mean, you guys spent a lot of time cuddling and very little time touching cocks?”

Sherlock shoulders hitched up in a silent huff of laughter. “I guess you could say that.”

Her massage had faded into a flat-palmed rub by that point, brushing up and down in a tidal pattern. “Hey,” she whispered. “Should I put off practice, or will you be okay if I play quietly?”

“Play,” Sherlock murmured wetly, drooling onto her spare pillow, and she slipped out, leaving the door cracked behind her. She plays something she composed as a teenager, inelegant compared to other pieces she knows, but she's retained some fondness for it. It makes her nostalgic for old crushes and summer nights and her future sprawling out before her, hopeful.

*

She was at 221B Baker Street, weeks into her strange (and strangely satisfying) liaison with Sherlock when she noticed an irregularity his case wall.

“Sherlock!” she cried, disapprovingly.

“You don’t live here, Janine,” he scowled, “you are not possibly allowed to still be upset about the contents of the fridge. I cleared out a whole shelf.”

Her eyebrows came up in disapproving arches. “Besides that, which is gross, you icky man, are you dating me to try to get the drop on Mr. Magnussen?”

Sherlock almost dropped the teacup he was holding. “That is the most ridiculous...”

“Is it though?” Janine said cheerfully. “There’s the blueprints to a bank on your case wall that he happens to use when he’s in the country. You left open a tab the other day where you’d googled a man he met with last week.” She paused, feeling an utter tit that the most relevant thing had only just caught up with her.  “Was that... the only reason? Shall I show myself out?”

She waited for Sherlock to deny it, to weave a colorful story. He was brilliant; she’d seen it in action, even knowing in her gut that she’d stumbled on the truth, she could choose to believe whatever he was about to spin her.

Instead, he said, “I think you have many qualities that have me examining my past avoidance of romantic entanglements. You... I didn't expect you to be you. Also, your boss is a terrible man.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But that’s what Mary’s for.”

Sherlock blinked at her for several minutes, and she couldn’t keep herself from cracking up. “That is _literally_ your primary skill -- knowing people’s secret professions or hobbies or whatever. How did you not catch her trigger finger? Or the fact that she knows, like, thirteen languages?”

After several minutes of Sherlock rebooting or climbing out of his mind palace, or whatever the hell needed to happen to get his brain back on track, he said, “Start from the beginning.”

So she did. She ended with: “In conclusion, if you lie to me again, I will never touch your scalp again.” 

For a moment, Sherlock looked genuinely conflicted. “I’ll tell you what I told John Watson.”

Janine raised an eyebrow, impatient.

“I’ll do my best.”

“You’re not very good at this, are you, Sherl?”

Sherlock made a lemon juice face. “Don’t call me that.” he said.

“You did date me to get close to my evil overlord boss,” she reminded him, pulling him by his collar so she could kiss him, a hard press of lips that was over quickly, just to let him know she still wanted to. “I think I could call you dickhead, at this point, and you’d have to respond.” 

Sherlock was silent a long moment, before he grinned a wide smile, off-center and slanted the way they were when he was genuinely happy. “Fair enough, Janine Hawkins,” he picked her up, deceptively strong arms around her waist and tossed her over his shoulder. “We have to go see John and Mary, now, because Mary has been a very bad girl, and is in deep trouble for trying to take the most dangerous man in London on alone..”

Janine laughed, breathless and a little dizzy. “I’ve never been part of a team heist before.”

“You're the mark, not a heist member. And this is not a laughing matter,” Sherlock said, his nose pressed against the soft flesh of her stomach, and carried her all the way down to the street. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Hang out with me on tumblr. ](katiewont.tumblr.com)


End file.
